The Bitter Side of War
by The Silvercat
Summary: One-shot. Redwall is famous for its glorious feasts after victory...But what if-for once-there was no victory? The other side of war. R&R please.


The Bitter Side of War

Five years.

This war had been waged for five years now and it still wasn't finished. The vermin and Martrin's cunning seemed to be never ending. Even the ever optimistic Lord Sharpaxe stood grimly in the front lines surveying the depressing, gouged battlefield, his soft brown eyes passing over the bodies they could not bury.

After five years, the Long Patrol, the Warriors of Redwall, and Lord Sharpaxe had only managed to guide Martrin Salis' army to the coastline. And that was only because she had conceded willingly. She didn't mind fighting on open ground. Her army was still five times the size of their pitiful force. The sly weasel could slaughter them at her own leisurely pace; she was in no hurry.

Perhaps it was this revelation and his past experience in the last five years that gave Banor Syat a grim appearance and outlook. His dark brown linen shirt was torn in numerous places as well as the thick material of his pants. The young mouse's fur was spikey and crusty with dirt and blood. His once bright gray eyes were now solemn and emotionless; Banor saw no hope.

All he saw was death.

It was all he had seen.

Staring out across the vast plain in front of him, standing next to Lord Sharpaxe, all he could see were the bodies. How often had the ground been fought on? Enough times so that the stench of the bodies was overpowering. Despite this, Banor did not wrinkle his nose in irritation. It had been two years, he was used to it.

"Banor, my friend, your attitude… It's working on the morale of everyone else. Do try to cheer up," The deep voice of Sharpaxe barely penetrated the thick concentration of the mouse. The words only made Banor turn to gaze into the soft brown eyes of the badger. What the huge mammal saw caused him to shiver: nothing.

This badger Lord had never seen such an empty face. Even Banor's eyes, which were the open windows of the soul seemed to be entirely vacant of everything, let alone life. It was the window to a mouse with nothing he felt he needed to live for. Lord Sharpaxe saw all the deaths of every creature Banor had encountered within his eyes.

After all of his years being the protector of Salamandastron, no hare had ever come to him with such an empty expression. What the badger found most sad, though, was that Banor's face was on everyone else's. Creatures were losing hope. It was when Sharpaxe was looking around at these dispirited creatures he would muse, _'How could we fight such a hopeless war? Not even the generations before us have ever faced such an onslaught—an endless onslaught. What can be done?'_

As Sharpaxe thought of that he realized the humor, the disarming smile, and the optimism that he had used to lighten the situation—all of it was lost on Banor as he stared up into the shaken eyes of the badger. Finally, in a hollow voice, the mouse responded, "No amount of Syat charm will do anything to bring their morale up. They are not half-wits. They know as well as we that this could very well be our last stance."

As if to punctuate the harsh reality of his statement, Martrin Salis and her mate, the Commander, suddenly penetrated the skyline with their heads, walking alone toward the pair that awaited them. Such was their display of confidence that they didn't even have a small contingent of fighters to guard their every move to ensure their safety. The female stepped forward and said, "I will give you one last chance: Surrender or die! There will be no mercy for any of you left if I win! Are you sure you want to sacrifice your lives?"

Banor didn't even offer an answer, only stared unperturbed by the thought of oncoming death. How many death threats had he received and not gotten? Too many to count. Despite the mouse's disdain of the threat of death, his comrade in arms—about a score of Redwallers, two score Long Patrol hares left, and Lord Sharpaxe—stood up straight and proud to glare back defiantly at the conquering pair who had matched wits and forces with them and come out on top.

The badger Lord narrowed his eyes venomously and let out a fearsome roar that shook the very barrens they were standing on, screaming, "Never, Martrin Salis! You will have to fight us to the very last to conquer this strip of land!"

The weasel only nodded as she accepted his decision for all of them. She stared a moment longer then bowed with her mate who then took out his crossbow and started walking backwards, keeping his eyes on the frontline. But the warriors had already turned away as they prepared for this renewed onslaught. Blades were sharpened and their focus honed. Their will to survive was overpowering once more—they'd be able to fight to the last as was Redwall tradition!

Banor had no will to live.

Five years prior, he remembered his will being the strongest and most unyielding. Stubborn from his very infantile days, he grew into a wayward and intelligent young creature with his eyes set on the Warrior occupation of the Abbey; he was surely destined for battle—He was the warrior's son. And the stories of old passed down from generation to generation only spurred his desires and imagination.

For as long as his mother allowed, Banor had practiced his sword skills everyday, hoping to carry the sword of Martin into battle someday should he need to. That day came five years ago in the form of an envoy sent by Lord Sharpaxe of Salamandastron requesting—no, begging!—for help from the Redwallers, describing how the coast was riddled with enemies, how their scouts could no longer travel safely without getting ambushed; the threat was everywhere and the probability of the coastline falling was too high for Redwall to refuse. Within a day's time they had prepared their best Warriors and most potential—three hundred in total—and sent them off in the early morning hours of the next day.

Surprisingly enough, it had only taken two days to catch up to the Long Patrol hares and the great badger lord Sharpaxe, for Martrin Salis' army had driven them deep into Mossflower woods. With only three hundred to add to the Long Patrol's number, they still managed to drive Martrin back inch by painful inch toward the coastland.

For years, Banor had held onto the hope that they would return celebrated heroes and champions, just like in the stories; the true stories! They were supposed to be remembered for their bravery in trying to match wits and force against a foe nearly ten times their size with cunning unheard of. Though the stories featured the deaths of friends, it had _never_ prepared Banor for this.

It was the strife, the pain, the suffering.

Though he had imagined losing a friend often enough nothing in the stories ever matched the reality of the situation. And one friend became two, then three, and finally his most dear friend and mentor: his father. Banor's father, Gareth Syat the celebrated hero and Warrior of Redwall, had also joined in on driving the invaders back onto the shore away from Redwall as well as Salamandastron, and he furthermore carried Martin's magnificent sword into battle to aid their endeavor. The sword gave him no such luck.

Three years into the ongoing war they had finally left Salamandastron behind as they herded the far greater army south, away from their homes. The frontline wasn't marching too far away from the back of the vermin horde as they wanted to snag any stragglers or hopeful deserters from going into the forest, when the vermin suddenly turned and gave them a surprise attack. Their honed reflexes managed to save most of them as they loosed arrow at the exact same moment the enemy did.

That day, under the burning summer sun, a score and a half of lives were lost between the defenders and the invaders. Gareth Syat had been in the front line. Gareth Syat had met his end with the sharp wooden tip of an arrow in the chest and through his heart. He died without a sound.

The news of Gareth Syat's death rippled through the ranks where a profound note of horror could be found underneath. Banor's father had been one of the main leaders and campaigners that had still managed to keep their spirits raised during their darkest hour. Their darkest years. The hopelessness was beginning to stealthily and speedily invade every creature's mind.

Banor Syat died that day with his father. His will—having begun to creak and crumble amidst the terrible weight of the vines that had encircled his wall of will—came crashing down. And off a cliff he fell. Three years and Banor's mind and body could not bear anymore deaths from his friends and family. Though the prospect of Martrin killing his mother and the entire Abbey had crossed his mind it was gone with the wall.

The mouse began to grow apart from the rest of the forces still left. Still struggling to drive Martrin back, who was in fact waiting for their will to fail just like Banor's. She was winning the mental fight.

And so the deaths continued to pile up on Banor as he mindlessly and soullessly fought next to his comrades; as he fought for no reason. The last flutter of a thought that had crossed his empty mind appeared when one of his oldest friends, Bidel Sumos—a sturdy, optimistic squirrel—took an arrow in the shoulder and one in the thigh, and he fell in the middle of the battlefield.

Banor froze when he saw the sight and his subconscious suddenly seemed to come from nowhere as the voice of reason screamed at him, "So you're just going to watch him die out there, aren't you, Banor? Yes, of course you are. You've watched everyone else go out and die, why should you save him?" The thick sarcasm suddenly opened Banor's eyes and for the glimmer of a few minutes, the mouse had been resurrected back to his old self.

After the long years of walking through the war in a daze—the monotony of death, violence, and mourning were a bad record player to Banor—the mouse, who had been dead in spirit, was suddenly slapped awake by the stinging needles of compassion and hope.

"Bidel," The tenor voice suddenly ripped itself from the throat of Banor as he widened his eyes and jumped over the makeshift trenches the moles with them had dug. Finding his paws quickly he began sprinting across the wide open plain in great sweeping strides.

"No wait, sah! 'Tis too dangerous," A hare by the name of Sootpaw shouted at him, reaching vainly for the mouse's long out of reach footpaws.

Ignoring the hare, Banor began concentrating on his friend and the relativity the squirrel had had on his life. Bidel was the firm voice of reason; even as a dibbun he helped keep Banor out of more trouble than they always got into. Wise beyond his years he had an undying optimism that had recently began sputtering amidst the ongoing war and oppressing weight of trying to spread good cheer to every creature still valiantly, but mindlessly pushing forward.

The squirrel had ceaselessly been working on raising his friend's spirit's to try and awaken him to the world for his own good as well as for the remaining forces. Banor had been destined to be the Warrior of Redwall; he had to pick up his father's torch and lead the way through the dark passages.

Dodging the shower of arrows he forged ahead, picking his way among the bodies until he reached that of his friend's. The mouse immediately ducked down and collapsed next to the squirrel, as he breathlessly asked, "Bidel! Bidel! Are you still alive? Please answer me!"

"B-Banor… What are y-you doin—" The squirrel's voice caught as he choked on the blood filling his mouth and laid back down with another gagging groan. Banor froze for an instant, then dabbed hastily at his mouth with a handkerchief his mother had given him and then he being began hoisting up his friend on his back. Giving the enemy one last fearful glance, the mouse turned and ran; his friend's head resting on his back.

"N-no! Save… Yourself, B-banor. Ju-just leave me! You must though! You're one of the few… One of the few still… Keeping this… Army to-together… Leave me," Bidel tried to sob through his pain and panic.

The mouse then said, "Sorry, Bidel, but you're the only one I've got left to live for. If you want me to survive then you have to as well," Unheeding the further protests Bidel made, Banor began running back to the front-line, dodging the bodies and trying to increase his speed, which was hampered by the squirrel's weight.

Another rain of arrows came to pepper Banor as he forced himself to continue running and grunted when his uncovered shoulder received an arrow. It was while he was dashing for safety in hopes of saving his friend that Bidel died on the battlefield, an arrow having pierced his head. Much like Banor's father, he too was slain without a sound.

By this time so many loved ones had been lost by the beasts all around him that hardly anyone gave Bidel a second glance upon seeing his corpse arrive. They knew him to be dead before the mouse had gotten there. Just one more creature they had lost, nothing more.

It was the hard times that they were suffering on the battlefield that they changed. So many were dead that it no longer seemed to matter; funeral services for those who managed to die behind their lines featured the names of the beasts and the bodies laid into a trench hole that the moles would cover up. That's as far as it went. That was as far as it could go.

As for the wound in Banor's shoulder, it nearly proved fatal as it had gone straight through his shoulder, slicing muscle and tendons. Though he had been injured plenty of times already during the war, the initial shock that his friend died while he was carrying him across the lines and registering that he had been wounded seemed to overload his mental capacity, and he slipped into shock.

The Healers worked tirelessly into the night to try and save him. The hope never seemed to vanish either as he slipped deeper and deeper into a coma.

While the Healers labored over him, Banor had started walking along the path to the Dark Forest. It was nothing spectacular as it was in fact overgrown with black weeds choking and trying to consume the path. A low hanging mist that covered everything below his knees clung tenaciously to the ground as he walked through it, seeming to shove the wispy clouds out of his way.

The young mouse had peered about him in a curious manner, knowing that he appeared to be on the verge of death but not really caring. Then a sudden shocking wave of fear began creeping its way from his footpaws to his heart, causing him to grab himself as he spastically shivered and peered about fearfully.

This feeling, the one he had been experiencing during the war—especially after his father died—had consumed him wholly now and he moaned. The cry, so mournful and stricken that it would've been considered a death howl, suddenly arose from his throat and he threw his head back to cry into the darkness. He was alone.

That feeling of loneliness only seemed to choke him as he struggled to stay on his paws and trudge down the path toward his goal. But for some reason, the feeling did not seem to pass and he moaned aloud again, howling a mournful dirge that only seemed to be absorbed by the skinny, barren trees.

"I thought death was supposed to be my salvation? Martin? Martin! Oh, please help me. My heart—it feels like its being gouged out of my chest! Arrggh," The mouse cried aloud again, clutching at his heart which seemed to radiate pain.

The warrior mouse that Banor had become so dependent on didn't show his usually encouraging face. The ghostly wind of the forest shook the naked trees and Banor's exposed skin viciously, causing him to cry out in further pain. "Martin," The young mouse shouted again as he slumped to his knees on the ground to cry pitifully. For it wasn't his heart alone that cried out in pain, but his mind as the experiences he had endured over the last four years suddenly came crashing down on him.

He jerked upright when a warm paw rested on his shoulder. It was Martin the Warrior, but… There was no kind and encouraging smile decorating his face as seemed customary in the stories. Only a grave expression that left the mouse staring pityingly and sorrowfully down at the younger one, then he said, "I am sorry, young one. This war you're enduring should never have happened, was never supposed to happen. And you, so young have been thrown into this horrid situation to be brutally destroyed as your spirit is whittled, sliver by sliver. No creature should endure what you and your comrades are."

Banor could only stare up at Martin as he inhaled ragged breaths on the dark earthen floor of the path. The young mouse stared up into the older one for one long moment, as though he were trying to size him up when suddenly the apparition seemed to disappear in front of his eyes. There had been no words of hope, not even a goodbye, made by the warrior and Banor was left all alone on the frightful path, under the watch of the skeletal branches.

"AAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHH!" The cry of the near insane creature, tottering on the fine line that separated sanity from insanity was suddenly jerked from the vision and back into reality with a throbbing pain in his shoulder. The relieved faces of those around him now smiled sadly, but encouragingly at him. He did not smile back.

And now as Banor Syat stared out across the brush-strewn plain of the beach he could see it begin to disappear under endless rows of marching vermin who seemed intent on ending the fight here; today. He was only more than willing to end it.

Banor had hardly spoken since his shoulder had gotten injured—not that he spoke much before either—but now he turned to Lord Sharpaxe and said in a strong, certain voice, "I have walked the road of death. And it is a lonely road at that."

The badger turned to stare at him, his brow furrowed momentarily in confusion before he shifted his attention back to the oncoming horde and shouted aloud to his troops. "It is judgment day! After five long years of battling, this will be the most decisive skirmish of them all! Though the odds are set very much against us, we will fight to the death! For your life means the survival of your loved ones! Your wives and children at Salamandastron as well as in Redwall! They will continue to live!"

Now, the badger turned fully to the army and shouted aloud, "For Redwall! For Salamandastron! For their future! Eulalia!" Bloodwrath streaked his eyes as he pulled his lips back over his pearly teeth and charged headlong into the melee without a set battle plan, without any strategy. With a force as small as theirs, it was a wonder that Martrin hadn't turned back sooner to dispose of them.

Shouting similar battle cries, Redwallers and Long Patrollers alike charged without regard into the ranks of the foe, hoping to catch them off guard. Their faces were stretched in varying degrees of strain, each with their lips peeled back over their teeth, weapons raised to fight. They were more than ready to fight to the death.

Even without reason to live, Banor emotionlessly and soundlessly began lunging over the sands with long strides, his paws resting comfortably on the hilt as he withdrew the gleaming blade of Martin's sword from its sheath. Twirling it skillfully he turned sideways at the last second and hop-skipped into the mass of vermin that practically awaited him.

He lost himself in the dance he became so familiar with. The dance of battle—of death. Every sweep of his blade counted for a kill as he thrust and sliced, saying each and every name of a creature most dear to him that had been lost to this horde. To this war. He fought the last battle for them.

In the last battle between the defenders and invaders, Banor's fate was finally sealed just a few moments into the fight. Swinging the magnificent blade aloft the young mouse was ready to bring it down with full force on the skull of a weasel he had liked to think was Martrin's. But another sword pierced his stomach first and he faltered. With the blood beginning to seep between his teeth Banor staggered to stay on his paws, but all of his strength left him as the paw holding the sword buckled and he fell to the ground, his head staring off into the side.

For all the hardships he had endured in the last five years, one who was looking into that face would've been surprised by the absolute serenity if they'd known him to have lost his will only two years before. A slight upward curve of his lips gave the illusion he'd been enjoying the carnage that he had literally walked into.

It was relief. The war was finally over.


End file.
